


the fear of falling apart

by ElasticElla



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 21:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7729801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prisoner dies on rainy afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fear of falling apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreenPhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenPhoenix/gifts).



> title from p!atd's this is gospel

The prisoner dies on rainy afternoon. It takes until the evening for Chiyoh to notice, Murasaki wanted the attic reorganized and cleaned. He never got a last meal, but with how he became a prisoner, she can't muster up any regret on the matter.

She writes a letter to Murasaki, and leaves near midnight. That woman never liked hearing no, would ceaselessly try to find a way to keep her. But her job is done, she only has to tell Hannibal what came to be of his sister's murderer. He'll be pleased. 

.

The suspicions have been buzzing around her head for years. Was it just rage and revenge that made Hannibal seek the prisoner's death? Or was there some truth to his horrid whispers, cackling as he told of them both eating Mischa, of how sweet her flesh-

No. The prisoner is dead. She will no longer think of him.

.

Hannibal's house is easy to find, easy to spy upon. She will wait for him to leave, and inspect it. The suspicions remain even without carrying the dead prisoner, she's nearly free. 

A woman creeps into the house before Chiyoh can, a gun on her hip and a too honest look about her face. She seems to be a dozen steps away from a tragedy, and Chiyoh follows her in, her own longer gun close.

There are stairs going both directions, and Chiyoh goes up, wants the higher ground if it comes to an altercation. 

It's the wrong choice. 

Chiyoh realizes this only minutes later, a door opening and heavy footfalls fading downstairs presumably. She follows, sees the threat too soon and shoots it. 

It's a fitting end for her childhood friend. Hannibal was the one to teach her violence's language. 

The woman is holding a piece of meat, a freezer of body parts behind her. 

“Shit,” she says, sounding almost unimpressed, almost bored. “am I happy to meet you.” 

Chiyoh blinks, doesn't take her finger off the trigger. 

“I'm Beverly, I'm calling the cops in okay? This whole place needs to be examined, god knows what we'll find.” 

She lets her gun point down slowly, away from her toes. “Yes. I am Chiyoh.” 

.

The rest of the night should pass as a blur. If Chiyoh were anyone else, were _normal_ , she's certain it would. Instead, everything is in a sharp focus: distant sirens rushing closer, blue and red lights spilling through the windows, one mostly whole body, and countless pieces of others. (Chiyoh counts four hearts, a dozen livers, and the rest is unrecognizable, already too close to food.) 

Every new discovery feels like a slap, her prisoner wide awake and cackling in her mind. _He told her, he told her so. If she'd come sooner… if she'd hadn't been so scared of change or stubborn... She might not have killed them, but she condemned them._

There's someone from the police talking to her, slowly with small words. They expect her to be more traumatized, perhaps in shock. It's a lucky thing they only think she killed a dangerous stranger, none of them would understand. 

Except perhaps for Beverly. She wears a curious look all night, not quite righteous with a hefty dose of bitter satisfaction. 

Beverly touches her three times that night. 

The first is when the cops come in, and Chiyoh feels herself stiffen. She knows she's in the right, but she killed and the idea of becoming a prisoner once more is horrifying. (Her own prisoner rattles gleefully at that, his chains dragging across her skull.) Beverly slowly puts a hand on her shoulder, says it'll be okay. 

The second is when her words come true, an investigator turned to a counselor, Beverly playfully jostling her shoulder with her own. 'See? You can breathe', she says, and Chiyoh's inhale is sweet and conscious. 

The third is when they part ways, in front of the house, Beverly tucking a business card into the palm of her hand. The front says she's a crime scene investigator and the back has another set of digits scribbled in pen. 

Chiyoh can't remember before tonight the last time someone touched her. 

( _Lie_. The prisoner grabbed her once, when she was tired and feeding him late. She doesn't want to compare that to Beverly though, would like to pretend the former never happened.)

.

Days later, the aftermath is still more vivid than the killing.

Days later, and Chiyoh has never been so aimless. Even her head's prisoner is silent, as if knowing for once he'd be a nearly welcome distraction. 

Days later, and she calls her. 

Beverly says it's about time. 

.

Beverly wants to meet at her work, changes it from outside to inside with a text, and Chiyoh supposes it's a lucky thing she didn't bring her gun on this excursion. Beverly has a rolodex in front of her, stands up when Chiyoh comes in. 

She greets her warmly for an almost stranger, though perhaps she isn't putting enough stock into the saving her life thing. Maybe they skipped a step and Chiyoh's still awkwardly fumbling for footing. 

Beverly points to the rolodex, “Recipes on one side, business cards on the other. He was way more extensive than anyone thought.” 

Chiyoh waits, and Beverly starts speaking again after a few beats. 

“These cards though,” she says, picking up a small stack of twenty or so, “are all still alive, safe and sound.” 

Beverly hands them to her, “You saved them.” 

It's a paltry success, and Chiyoh can't look at the huge roll of cards, of all those she didn't. 

“Shall we?” 

It's a phrase she picked up from Murasaki, the intonation as well- soft and sharp enough to be a gentle demand to leave. 

Beverly smiles, “Alright, there's a cafe around the corner. Great coffee, passable tea, terrible sandwiches, and wonderful fries. That work for you?” 

It doesn't take Chiyoh long to reach an answer, “Yes.” 

.

What _does_ she want to do?

The question echoes from everywhere, from everyone: herself, the prisoner, Beverly. She's happy, content. It's even getting easier to laze about in the sun, easier to silence the dead man's whispers. 

Beverly turns to Bev on a sunny day, and Bev kisses her name right off her lips. They lay in the grass after, staring up into a sparsely cloudy sky and making up shapes and stories. Chiyoh doesn't care to worry about tomorrow, not when today is so glorious. 


End file.
